


Fever Dream

by moon_u



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, No Smut, Romance, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_u/pseuds/moon_u
Summary: A longing for summer manifests into a disjointed epilogue for a story that only exists in my head. A hint of sex, a rose garden, lots of wine and an eventual Italian holiday.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Fever Dream

The heatwave struck so suddenly that for a moment, they were in disbelief and continued to leave the Manor in their wellies at Hermione’s insistence, ready for an unexpected bout of rain every single time. But the rain never came and she would sheepishly transfigure their rain boots into their summer wear. Draco only shook his head fondly.

England's oppressive summer had truly arrived and they resolved to spend their days doing absolutely nothing. The elves banished the wellingtons until the next season and the heavy coats in their closets were replaced with cotton dresses and linen shirts. Their days were spent in Narcissa’s rose garden. They took the stone path on the north side of the property, making their way hand in hand every morning through the path shaded by overgrown vines curling on a stretch of wooden arbors.

Real life ceased to exist and time ticked on at a deliciously languid pace. Inside the confines of the Manor's magic, Draco found himself falling spell to Hermione's carefreeness. He had abandoned any and all decorum long ago; his hair to flopped over his face unstyled, his shirts worn increasingly unbuttoned if Hermione had anything to do with it. His parents would have been scandalized. 

They were like two teenagers again, ignoring any semblance of propriety. Summer induced them into a fever. 

They’d have three meals a day outside on the grass; four if you counted the bottles of wine they went through. She had discovered a newfound affinity for mangoes and the elves found out, producing golden and bejewelled fruit at every meal that she ate with her hands.

“Sensational,” she said with a laugh, licking nectar from her fingertips. They had to have been costing a fortune to import every week but Draco didn’t care, not when he could taste it from her lips.

They lolled on a blanket, sometimes sprawled on top of each other, from the first rays of light until the sun disappeared into the horizon. On some nights, they fell asleep outside, waking up to bemused elves who trimmed the lawn precisely around their outline on the grass.

When they did manage to fall into bed at night, sun-drenched and warm, Draco could still smell roses on her skin, in her hair and in the smooth of the palm that caressed his face.

“Young Master! Young Master!” Draco blinked awake one morning. They had dipped into Lucius’ champagne collection the night before and fell asleep outside again, except this time they were prepared with extra cushioning charms, pillows and a duvet.

“What is it, Tippy?” He grumbled, eyes still closed as he pulled Hermione even tighter to his chest, burying his face into her hair. Hermione sighed quietly in her sleep.

“Master and Mistress are here, Young Master Draco!” Tippy squeaked.

It took a few beats before he fully recognized what Tippy had said.

He would deny ever being caught so off-guard. “What?” he yelped, panic pulling him out of his morning daze. Well, afternoon. The sun was high enough to tell him that they had slept in.

He blinked away his sleep and caught sight of his mother, poised as ever in baby blue robes. She smiled serenely behind a frantic Tippy.

“Hello, darling,” Narcissa said coolly.

Draco stumbled as he got up, realizing with a flush that he was pulling his arm from under Hermione’s t-shirt. His mother’s raised eyebrow told him enough.

“Mother!” Without much grace, he managed to stand, running a hand through his hair.

“I'm glad you and Hermione are enjoying the gardens, darling,” her eyes flitted over to Hermione’s slumbering figure on the grass.

“Ah, yes. We are,” Draco attempted to straighten his shirt but gave up.

Narcissa eyed his crumpled pyjama bottoms and their sorry excuse for a bed. “I’ve only come to tell you and Hermione that your father and I are taking brunch in the sunroom, dear.”

Cool fingertips lightly touched his cheek. Her eyes lingered on his face. His cheeks no longer looked gaunt, and his cheeks had a tinge across them.

“Honestly, the two of you,” she sounded motherly when she said that, to which Draco couldn't help but grin sheepishly. 

Narcissa returned one of her small smiles. She looked over to Hermione but there was no menace; only a fondness for the frizzy-maned girl who was intelligent beyond her years and had brought her son back to life. And more importantly, had brought her son back to her. 

They were too young to understand forever but the recklessness of young love was tangible in the Manor. Narcissa recognized it, for she too had experienced that giddy romance with Lucius some years ago. Once upon a time, it was bursting at its seams, not unlike this.

“Only overseeing the gardens, Mother,” his cheek earned a light scoff from her.

Her fingers dropped from his face. “Do join us, darling,” _o_ _r else_.

With one final lingering stare, she glided away, robes trailing behind her.

Draco fell back onto their makeshift bed with a groan as his mother disappeared around the corner, resisting the urge to crawl back under the duvet and sleep the burgeoning hangover away.

His parents spent most of their time in France, which meant that Draco and Hermione had the Manor all to themselves, save for the occasional surprise visit like today.

On most days though, they discovered some uncharted corner of the Manor and spent time there.

Books travelled to and from the library. Sometimes he read to her while she lay on his chest, his low voice rumbling from his chest in her ear until she fell asleep. Sometimes she read to him while he propped himself up on an elbow, playing with the hem of her dress. His hand would slither higher and higher on her thigh until the book lay discarded to the side, forgotten.

On some occasions they sat in silence, tangled up with each other, simply being and feeling real.

Some days they retreated to the opposite ends of the Manor because the heat made them irritable. They argued with as much finesse as their fourteen-year-old selves before stalking away and slamming doors in their wake. She would press her quill angrily as she scribbled on parchment while he clumsily dropped vials in his rage and couldn't quite focus on his brewing.

But by nighttime, they always found it within themselves to resolve it before they fell asleep. They would apologize meekly, anger dissipating.

Yet the Manor eventually made them restless. The heat made the air too sticky and the hum of cicadas became so loud in the evenings that they retreated back indoors, feeling chastened.

Every nook and cranny of the Manor had been explored and occupied, some even debauched.

The Manor felt cold and quiet most nights, under the gaze of ancestors whose eyes followed their every move. Not that they particularly cared whether the fourteenth century Nicholas Malfoy disapproved of them making out in the hallways.

“Italy?” Hermione set her fork and knife down. They were making use of one of the many dining rooms one evening. The elves had been thrilled at the prospect of a real dinner for once that they had set up floating candles around the dining room and promised an elaborate six-course meal, which Hermione managed to bargain down to three.

“Yes. There’s a property there. We could spend some time there to get away, if you would like.”

Hermione’s face twisted.

“Or not…” Draco trailed off with uncertainty.

“It’s not that.” She said hastily, “I just know that “property” means another mansion that’s probably too big for the two of us.”

Then she added with a rush, “But I love it here, I really do. And I’m so grateful to live in a house like this, it’s beyond anything—“

“I understand,” Draco said soothingly. She did have a point. The Malfoy homes tended to follow a similar blueprint that favoured grandiosity, and alabaster marble. “I’m sure we can think of something else.”

“Yes I’m sure we can,” she said thoughtfully, returning back to her duck confit. Draco could already tell she had something else in mind.

_Please, anything but camping._

“What about a hotel?” she offered.

"I don’t see why not,” The Ferragnis were old friends of the Malfoys and owners of a coastal paradise that Narcissa and Lucius once honeymooned at.

“A Muggle hotel,” Draco paused, fork poised perfectly in front of his mouth for another bite of duck.

Hermione's eyes were shining and he knew he stood no chance. “Of course, if that’s what you’d like.”

“Really?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, really,” it hadn’t come out as confident as he would’ve liked.

“Honestly, Draco,” she laughed lightly, “It’ll be just as ostentatious and excessive as you are used to.”

“ _Ostentatious?_ ” Draco bristled, looking offended, “I would hardly characterize my appreciation for aesthetics and style as ostentatious!”

Which only succeeded in making Hermione snort loudly. “Of course not.” 

Draco harrumphed, only half kidding as he stabbed his duck savagely with his fork.

“It’s been the best summer of my life, Draco,” her announcement made him look up from his plate, expression softening.

It was the sincerity in her voice that made him want to give her the world. It was her reassurance that she was happy that made him experience a boyish happiness he thought he had lost.

Emotion swelled in his chest, growing like a balloon and threatening to pop. He was desperate for her to understand but he couldn't quite find the words to tell her. 

She searched his face when he hadn't answered, wondering if she had said something wrong.

But no, she could see in the way he was looking at her that she hadn't. It was a familiar look of marvel that she sometimes caught him silently giving her. 

Hermione smiled shyly, embarrassed under his intense stare.

She was beautiful under any circumstance, but the candlelight gave her a glow that Draco felt was very appropriate.

The shadows fell hauntingly on her face and he wanted to kiss her senseless.

And so he did.

He vaguely heard glasses being knocked over and a surprised squeak from her. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t need words at all.

She had cried his name brokenly when she came undone.

When they fell asleep that night with their naked bodies intertwined, his fingers danced up and down her spine; a habit that reassured him every bit of her was real. 

**Author's Note:**

> self-indulgent fantasy to remind me that it's good to be alive. i hope whoever is reading this is staying safe and well.


End file.
